


Out of Distractions

by litbeyondmeasure



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Babysitter Leon, Bath, F/M, Fluff That Accidentally Became Angst, Fluff and Angst, Immortal Leon (Merlin), Leon Gets a Spa Day...Sort Of, Leon Realising That He's Repressed All the Trauma He's Experienced, Leon the Long-Suffering Knight, Lubble, M/M, Merlin's Magic Revealed (Merlin), Other, Post-Canon, Repressed Memories, The Knights Being Mildly Chaotic, The Knights Trying to Wreak Havoc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:47:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29331816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/litbeyondmeasure/pseuds/litbeyondmeasure
Summary: Leon has been running from his problems since Camelot was destroyed and the life he knew lost. When he books a day treatment at a spa, he realises that there's a lot of things left to unpack, and it looks like such a process is about to be very rudely interrupted. All he wanted was a quiet day to himself...(Written for Day 4 of Camelove 2021: Cupid's Aro)
Relationships: Elyan & Gwaine (Merlin), Gwaine & Lancelot & Elyan & Leon, Gwaine & Leon (Merlin), Gwen & Leon (Merlin), Lancelot & Leon (Merlin), Leon & Merlin (Merlin), Leon & Spa Treatment
Comments: 10
Kudos: 19
Collections: Camelove 2021





	Out of Distractions

Leon leans back in the massage jet, eyes closed, as he tries to work out where exactly everything has all gone horribly wrong.

* * *

He and Merlin had been planning a spa day for months, long before Arthur had come back on the scene. Quite frankly, Merlin’s old bones needed it, but with his youth returning with Arthur’s laugh, the two of them were spending every waking moment together before the inevitable event of Albion’s need for Arthur suddenly becoming very great. Leon had seen enough of the land to know that Albion equated to Merlin: Merlin, who still was rooted to the ancient magic of the earth – and Leon himself, for that matter. But, on the off-chance that Albion did indeed equate to modern Britain after all, Leon thought it best to squeeze in a spa day before the apocalypse.

Leon had welcomed Bath back with open arms several decades previously, when the separation from Merlin had begun to sting his very soul. He had missed him and missed the town where they had spent so many hours together as they watched the world age. It hadn’t been that difficult to secure a property when he had a small hoard of tokens from Camelot tucked away beneath the insole of his shoe. He was always reluctant to part with items that were as old as him, and had become like pieces of his soul, but for the sake of existing in relative anonymity it was necessary, every century or so, to sell them to some collector. Had he known that shortly after he moved Arthur would be returning, Leon probably would have stayed away slightly longer.

Pushing up the sleeves of his jumper, he loosely tied back his hair as he crossed over the bridge, stopping to lean against the balustrade and watch the violent pulsing of the water below. The sky above was clear and there was a gentle breeze tugging playfully at the hem of his jumper and it was one of those rare days when he wasn’t weary at the thought of living until the end of time. Perhaps it was the prospect of drowning his thoughts in some sweet, sweet jets. Or perhaps it was that Arthur’s return meant that his past and present were blending beautifully together like saturated watercolours dripping drowsily down the page of eternity.

With one final glance towards the bubbling cauldron below, Leon levered himself from the balustrade and turned away from the river, following the rays of sunlight towards his destination. He paused in the shadow of the abbey, resting his hand on the ancient stone for support. He could still recall the wonder and enchantment he’d felt at such a spectacle when he’d arrived to seek Merlin for the first time. Squinting at the stones, Leon let his hand fall to his side. It was folly to believe that the blood that had transferred from his fingers – the only living ink, save Merlin, that could pen the account of Camelot’s collapse – still lay on the structure he’d touched so long ago. Fragments of his soul had been absorbed and retained by the stone, gradually returning to him as held his palm against it, but blood? All traces of Camelot on the inanimate had been entirely erased: history had taken care of that.

Merlin had remained stagnant for centuries, never removing himself from the site he’d exiled himself to after the annihilation of everything that had been, wallowing instead in the memory of what could have been. Leon had moved on and tried to distract himself from all the consequences of immortality, flitting from one slice of existence to the next, never allowing himself to dwell on the losses that had been inflicted upon him. But it felt good to be back, and to allow such repression to pierce through the surface of his mind and flow over his senses. He’d spent decades hopping from historical re-enactment to historical re-enactment, unconsciously scrabbling for scraps of his knighthood days, and perhaps a few years away from the pikes and swords were what he needed. If Merlin could be happier doing a hundred and one different things – albeit with forty of said things probably being Arthur – then perhaps he could be happier in letting himself be swallowed by time, rather than trying to viciously combat it constantly. Besides, if he was going to be thrown into vicious combat that he did not sign up for with the collapse of Albion, then he had better make the most of the quiet reflection time.

Leon gave the abbey a friendly pat in farewell and continued along the winding streets. As tourists clouded the sunlight on the pavements, he skirted around them and hitched his bag further up his shoulder, hand holding it close to his body to avoid it being knocked. There were certainly a lot more tourists than the last time he had been in Bath and it unfortunately looked like they were all flocking to the Roman baths. So much for a peaceful day of relaxation. Then again, he would theoretically be up so high that he wouldn’t hear their chatter and, if he did, then he supposed that it could always provide free entertainment. Tour guides always seemed to get several minor details wrong, which wasn’t the end of the world – only the end of Leon’s. Perhaps he was taking it too personally, but there had been many slip-ups during his various re-enactments, with each invalidation of his history hitting harder than a battering ram. After over a thousand years, though, it was probably a good time to start growing thicker skin. He could always complain to Arthur about it later. Arthur would understand. Camelot had been their whole lives; Leon had grown up as a squire at court, shyly watching the young prince pitted against some of Camelot’s best warriors, had held back bile when Arthur had first fought blindfolded, at the age of twelve, and received a deep gash on his arm. He’d seen Arthur receive that injury and, instead of dropping his sword, Arthur had set his jaw and dealt a blow that was significantly more brutal, piercing the chainmail of his opponent. It had been then that Leon had decided he would serve this boy for all his life and if serving now meant complaining about the lack of decorum in tour guides – which it most certainly did – then Leon was more than happy to still oblige.

His feet had wandered along with his mind and he found himself at the entrance of the spa when he pulled himself out of reminiscence, palm against the cool glass door. Leon was about to continue when he realised that he couldn’t even remember which massage – the first part of his indulgent package – he’d gone for. There had been several options, he could recall that, but he could also recall the fact that he had wanted to tick all of them. The aromatherapy had sounded good, but his body was also incredibly knotted after one and half thousand years of relentless activity, so the traditional massage would help – but then so would the bamboo. And he could certainly use some inner peace and tranquillity. Fumbling around in his bag, he stepped to the side of the door and withdrew a piece of paper with the details of his package printed out, scanning it restlessly in preparation for introducing himself at the front desk. Serenity Candle Massage. That’s what he’d selected. Not, as he had initially thought, having lit candles put on his body – something that Gwaine had tried to do to him, with the help of Percival, when exceedingly drunk – but having something from a candle, possibly warm oils, though he wasn’t entirely sure, poured over his body. With it supposedly alleviating tension, awakening the senses and helping with sore muscles, Leon had obviously thought it covered all grounds.

Skimming the paper a little further, he scoffed at the discount for a treatment for couples, before gently tearing it along the dotted lines and pocketing the voucher. Perhaps Merlin might have a use for it. Pushing open the door, Leon wiped the non-existent dirt from his shoes and approached the front desk, tactfully clearing his throat. The receptionist looked up and, after asking for his details, gave him a map and a key and directed him down the hallway with vague instructions about a changing room.

The doors were too low for him to stride through and, when he finally came across a plaque announcing it was the portal to the changing room, he had to duck to save a rather painful start to his relaxation – he’d had enough headaches over the centuries and didn’t need one with a visible symptom. Passing through without injury, he glanced at the number on his key and followed the string of digits to slot it into the corresponding locker. Leon left the key in the lock as he gingerly opened the door, his hand falling on a soft square of thick material. Hoisting his bag further up his shoulder before deciding it was best to deposit it in the locker, Leon unceremoniously pushed it to the back and withdrew the items that he’d been met with.

There was a muffled thud as two hand-sized objects dropped to the floor and, ignoring them for the time being, Leon turned over what was left, unfolding a rather large towel and a robe, both emblazoned with the spa’s logo. It was like holding clouds; Leon had never felt something so synthetically fluffy. With a brief glance towards the door, he hastily stripped down to the trunks he had already donned and wrapped the robe around himself, rolling up his clothes and shoving them inside his shoes before turning the key. Realising that the objects he had dropped were slippers, he decorously inserted his feet into them whilst inserting the key into the pocket of his silicone wristband, before then noticing that they were on the wrong feet. Thankful that nobody else was around, he quietly let out a short laugh and rectified his mistake, studying the map and shuffling out of the room.

Leon followed the route to the massaging suite, joining a shy queue outside the door labelled ‘Serenity Candle’. He nodded at those in front of him and, waiting for the numbers to gradually dwindle, studied the map more closely. It seemed that the spa itself manipulated both ancient and modern architecture together to create the haven that he stood in. He was itching to explore and see how much the place had changed since he had last traipsed down its halls, but he was now first in the queue and being ushered through the door.

When he stepped through the door, he was engulfed by the overwhelming scent of roses and aloe vera. It certainly made a change to the distinct perfume of sweat that he had been accustomed to as a knight. Giving his details, once again, to the member of staff lingering by the massage table, he shrugged off his robe and sat on the table, gently swinging his legs. Leon followed the muffled instructions to lie on his stomach and tried to suppress the nerves threatening to mingle with the anticipation of relaxation – he had been through much, much worse than a massage, after all.

A sharp intake of breath was his reaction to the cool palms on his back and the massage therapist laughed quietly, unaware that it was first time the skin beneath his shirt had been touched by the hands of another human for centuries. ‘Don’t worry, my hands will warm up soon enough. I’m Oscar, by the way. Is this your first time at the spa?’

‘At the spa, yes. I’ve been to the baths before,’ Leon answered, wincing as several of the knots in his shoulders began to loudly protest.

‘Sorry about the discomfort; I’m just trying to gauge the state of your muscles whilst the candle melts. They are awfully knotted, I must say; when was the last time they were properly seen to?’

‘A long time ago,’ Leon said through gritted teeth. ‘Downside of regular use, I suppose. I don’t usually notice it.’

‘You’ve become accustomed to such things if they’ve been with you with you for a long time.’ Oscar released the pressure on Leon’s back momentarily to check on the candle. ‘What do you do to get them in such a state?’

‘I used to need to be physically active for my job. Constantly fit and healthy, able to withstand injuries.’

‘The army?’

‘Not dissimilar.’

Sensing the subtle evasion, Oscar took the hint and stayed quiet as the mix was gently poured over Leon’s back, leaving the knight to his thoughts. He tried to keep his mind focused on the scenes at hand, rather than the reel of images flashing behind his corneas. They had come to him too often in dreams and he refused to allow them to invade his waking moments as well. He had seen what allowing that had done to Merlin.

The roses. He needed to focus on the roses.

If he closed his eyes – not to sleep, simply to imagine – he could feel the smooth petals between his fingertips, and the slight crunch from the first frost of the winter rose when his gloves applied pressure. The ones he had studied never had much of a scent to them, but these? They had to be artificial; the subtle sting of perfume had been amplified to such an extent that it was on the verge of overpowering. There had always been roses in Arthur’s chambers when Gwen had been queen, even after Camlann. They had been changed every week, and on grey days Gwen would approach Leon with a tired smile and slide one behind his ear. He hadn’t been able to smell the roses, then, just the aromatic imprint of her touch-starved skin, which was when he had taken her hand and gently returned the smile. They had lost the same people, but the strings tethering her to Elyan and Arthur had been of much thicker rope than his. Merlin had been an equally harsh blow, though when he had returned after several decades of grief, only to be thrust into a new chapter of it with Gaius, it had been like he had only gone momentarily into the next room – at least if Gwen’s demeanour had been anything to go by.

For years, in Camelot, Leon had been torn between anger at Merlin’s abandonment of them, and grief that he seemingly felt unable to live as he should have been living for all of his existence. He should have guessed that Leon would have no issue with Merlin’s sorcery; Leon himself was well aware that he owed his life to magic, but he had since learnt that second-guessing was a frequent companion of disclosing a part of yourself kept hidden for so long.

Leon frowned. He wasn’t supposed to be thinking about all of this.

Aloe vera. Surely aloe vera wouldn’t have any traumatic connotations.

His mind wandered along the path of Merlin again as he tried to picture what he and Arthur were doing around the city, before he hastily erected a set of bollards to prevent any further progress. To go from roses to reliving his trauma meant that no avenue relating to his friends was safe. He could have spoken to Oscar, that much was true, but the effort required to open his mouth vastly outweighed the benefits he would reap from such a conversation. It was one of those days of quiet contemplation, with the exception of contemplating Camelot.

Realising that his mind was on self-destruct, Leon instead made mental preparations to spend the rest of the hour counting the navy specks on the carpet, biting down on his lower lip when his eyes threatened to close. In the silence, he was able to identify the spots where the massage was hit with an impact that was the inverse of that he had borne when he had lost his friends one by one—

Leon closed his eyes and held back a sigh. It seemed that the past was clawing at the door he’d barricaded. Perhaps it was best to let it out. After all, he had barely allowed himself a chance to process the fact that Gwen’s tomb had been destroyed by invaders only days after she had been laid to rest in it. He had witnessed it, decided that was more than enough time spent on the subject, and thrown himself into the next thing. She had been a lifelong friend; as a squire he had spent many hours in the corner of her father’s workplace, watching him forge weapons for the knights with an awe that had been reflected in Gwen's eyes. Elyan had always been a little distant from strangers as a child, hiding behind the racks of swords in the workshop. But Gwen had always had time for him and, in his more rebellious years, he had slipped away in the evenings – before curfew – and spared several hours to inform her of everything happening at court. He hadn't stopped smiling for a week when she had joined the royal household, even though he was relentlessly knocked down during that first fortnight of training. They had grown as the intertwined climbing plant and tree had done, thriving together in the sunlight and shrinking in synchronisation as the same shadows had been thrown over them.

Of course, he had become closer to Arthur in their adult years, once Leon had broken free from the ardent admiration phase, but Gwen had been there since the beginning. He had watched her chase after Morgana – whom he had also kept relatively distant, as a sign of respect, until it was too late to form any bond other than having her at his sword's point – down te same halls that she glided down as Queen of Camelot. The roughness of her hands had lingered even to her last breath: Leon could still feel the shape of them in his palm. For centuries, the only time he had visited his memory of her was on the day of her birth and the day of her death, and he had never summoned the courage to speak to Merlin about her. Leon knew that when he had unconsciously pulled away from her, in their adolescence, Merlin had been there to mitigate her loneliness, particularly after Elyan had disappeared the year before. If spas like this had been a feature of Camelot, Leon could picture the three of them whiling away an afternoon together, catching up and exchanging idle gossip. But Gwen had never lived to see the glorious invention that was a spa.

She would have laughed at him dropping his slippers in the changing room, he knew that, before dropping down to retrieve them for him. And she would have headed straight for the rooftop pool and spent half an hour staring out the city instead of jumping from treatment to treatment like Leon planned to do. Gwen had undertaken all the growth that Arthur could only think about, had set about legalising magic and building a kingdom that was never meant to crumble. But there had been those who had always opposed her and whose poison had gradually infiltrated the foundations, so that her death had been a starting gun for the end of all things.

Reacting to Oscar's touch, Leon sat up and smiled at the massage therapist, masking the expanding thoughts that thrummed beneath his trembling skin. Quietly murmuring a word of thanks, Leon slipped on his robe and exited the room, following the route to the rooftop pool. There was a tinge of relief to the melancholy curling like a tendril in his chest and Leon whispered Gwen's name into the silence, giving her a breath of his immortality. He carried the grief to the rooftop, allowing it to drop temporarily with his robe before sliding into the water.

The sunlight had heated the surface and, as the oils from his back were gradually pulled down to the depths by invisible vines, he swam through it gently, approaching the edge of the pool. On the skyline, the abbey was proudly stood like a shield, the shadows crafting a friendly smile over the darkened windowpanes. Leon was aware of swimmers behind him and pressed himself further against the edge of the pool so as not to obstruct their path. Rising like steam were the voices of tourists and Leon focused on the words exchanged, catching a laugh that had become once again familiar to him in recent months. Merlin had been so withdrawn when they had met annually for a drink, but Leon had lost count of the number of times he had caught the warlock biting down on his lip to prevent laughter. Leon knew it wasn't merely down to Arthur; Merlin himself had confessed at three in the morning on one cold Tuesday in October that it was comforting to have Leon near him. He had then gone on to apologise for abandoning Camelot – at which point Leon had hastily assured him there was no need to.

They had witnessed the city burn to the ground together and that, ultimately, was a shared experience that had overshadowed any resentment on Leon's part.

As Merlin's laughter faded, Leon left the edge and began to swim the length of the pool, concentrating on the malleability of the water between his fingers. There was an element of freedom to the act of swimming on top of a building but, for the price it was, Leon knew that he would have to make the most of it while he could. Ducking below the surface as he changed strokes, the discordant scents of Bath clashed like warring kingdoms in his nostrils and he couldn't stop a cautious smile from poking at his lips. His mind might not have been thanking him for a day without distractions, but his body certainly was. Each time he broke through the surface of the water, it was as if he had been newly baptised, with the ripples carrying away the regrets he'd been clinging to for centuries.

At the lightness he was experiencing, Leon swam through fragile elation, clasping at it with open palms. He hadn't let go before, only sprinted in the other direction of his problems – which, granted, shouldn't have really been the way of a knight of Camelot. Perhaps, though, it would do him good to have more outlets. He could write a novel. He had seen more than enough of the world to accurately represent numerous time periods and he had known more than enough people to immortalise in print. He rewarded himself with another smile. Gwen would have to feature, of course. She had been his first friend, so she would be his first inspiration.

Leon was drawn once again to the landscape, abandoning his swimming for the gentle treading of water. He had had enough of quiet contemplation, for the time being, instead wishing for something a little more exciting. There was the cafe, of course, but Leon didn't fancy eating lunch in a robe and slippers. Besides, there was a rather crunchy-looking apple in his bag to be a companion for his hand on the walk back. He clambered out of the pool, squeezing his hair as dry as he could, and glanced at his map. If it was excitement he was after, he supposed that he could give the Minerva Bath a go; it had jets.

Tying his robe, he descended to the lower levels and quietly joined a group of people already in the Bath, seeking out the areas of the water that reminded Leon of the brooks hidden in the forests surrounding Camelot. He discovered an unclaimed spot and settled in it, letting the flurried movements wash over his legs as he closed his eyes. This was more like it.

A body collided with his and, opening his eyes with a severe frown on his face, he squinted at them in artificial light. 'Gwaine?’

'Leon!'

It was definitely Gwaine; nobody else had that smile. 'How…how? You died. After Camlann.'

Gwaine gave him the once over. 'And you clearly didn't, because I don't recall seeing you in Avalon.'

'Immortality. But you're not the Once and Future King, how are you here?'

'It's complicated.' Gwaine paused, flashing Leon another smile and lowering his voice so it sunk below the noise of the jets. 'Then again, I guess we've got all the time in the world now. Arthur's destiny has always been tightly bound by magic. Specifically Merlin's magic. Those of us who met our end at the hands of magic and shared a tight bond with Merlin and Arthur were in a sort of limbo for a while, before being transported to Avalon when Arthur died. And when I say that, I mean me and Elyan. Lancelot, the bastard, was already there. Then we were just waiting for this moment.'

'So Percival—’

Gwaine dropped his gaze. 'I haven't seen Percival for the entirety of my afterlife.'

As if a little uncertain about how to handle Gwaine after so much time apart, Leon awkwardly placed his hand on his shoulder. His thanks for an act of sympathy was rewarded by Gwaine splashing chlorinated water in his eye. Clearly the bravado was back. And, it seemed, so were Lancelot and Elyan, making their way through the other visitors in a hasty effort to reach Leon and Gwaine.

'What are you all doing here specifically, anyway?' Leon asked, bracing himself as Elyan tackled Gwaine.

‘When you have been asleep for over a thousand years, your bones are going to be a little grumpy,’ Gwaine reasoned, emerging from beneath the surface, spluttering as he spoke.

‘Your bones won’t be the only things that are grumpy shortly,’ Leon darkly said, lowering himself further into the water so that his mouth became submerged, the tip of his nose bobbing on the surface.

They were going to get them all turfed out sooner or later, so he thought it best to make the most of it while he could. Lancelot had smuggled a tennis ball in – where he had potentially hidden that didn't bear thinking about – and the three of them were tossing it about. Despite the constant darting of his eyes to check that security wasn't descending, Leon was quite content to sit and watch them, as he had often done, before sneaking off to the steam room to process everything.

A month ago, he had been entirely alone, save for Merlin, and now he was more surrounded by friends than he had been since Gwen had died. As soon as Gwaine had mentioned magic, Leon had known that there would be no Percival. Percival had died in his arms after being pierced by numerous arrows on an ambush that had gone horribly wrong. There hadn't even been enough men left to take his body back to Camelot. Entering the steam room, Leon sealed himself in a pod and began to pace the length of it, selecting a scent in the vain endeavour to distract himself.

Then again, he had distracted himself enough over the years.

There would be more than enough time to catch up and Leon knew that neither he nor Merlin would ever have a silent house again. He settled on a bench, closing his eyes. His body felt healthier than it had in decades and he was able to move without the stiffness he'd become accustomed to. Wondering if Merlin knew that the others had also risen, Leon rested his head against the glass, quietly plotting out the rest of the day. It wasn't that he wasn't thrilled to see his friends, it was just that he had set aside that day completely for himself, to finally give himself the break that he had felt he deserved after over a thousand years of trauma.

But if they kept finding him, like they seemingly had now, tapping on the glass and pulling faces, then he supposed he was stuck with them for the rest of the day. Besides, they probably needed someone to keep an eye on them. A millennium trapped on one island meant that chaos would soon ensue, and Leon had had a lot of practice at being damage control.

Unable to suppress a smile, he let them in. Lancelot seated himself beside Leon, offering his hand, and sinking against the immortal knight when the hand was disregarded for a hug. Quietly thanking him for his sacrifice, Leon pulled back and surrendered himself to the numerous stories that Gwaine and Elyan had to tell. They had all been existing simultaneously, but Leon imagined that the three sat near him hadn't had the luxury of distractions. It seemed to have done them all good, though; they appeared to be less exhausted than he was.

Sat in part of a circle, Leon could almost fool himself that they were once again sat around the Round Table, discussing strategies and teasing one another as they awaited Arthur's arrival. Soon, though, the sealed pod gradually began to shrink and, making his excuses, Leon returned to the rooftop pool.

The sky had darkened, the fluffy clouds becoming threateningly grey, and the slight breeze was more vicious than it had been when he had last ascended. Leon stood by the glass, his forearms resting on the top of the barrier, looking out at the civilisation below. There was an irresistible sense of magnitude to the position he found himself in: being able to age the buildings with his own experiences, know that the toils pedestrians below were struggling through were ones that he himself had faced several times over. He had been existing, not living, since Camelot, isolated by the fact that, though surrounded by people, he had nobody who had been born at the same time as he had, or borne witness to the same horrors. That would change. He needed to reconnect with Merlin – or do so on a more regular basis, at least – and allow himself to seize everything with both hands and the vigour that Gwen would have had if she had also been resurrected.

There were few swimmers, sheltering from the cooling climate inside, so Leon could clearly hear the arrival of Lancelot, Gwaine, and Elyan. Discreetly, he submerged himself in the water, sitting on one of the massage jets in the corner. He just wanted one more half-hour of thinking time, that was all, then he would seize everything with that vigour he had promised. Perhaps he shouldn't have wished for more excitement when he wasn't completely prepared for it.

* * *

Opening his eyes, Leon nods to himself, blocking out his impending doom as Gwaine swims towards him. Wishing for something. Yes, that is how everything has gone horribly wrong. As long as Gwaine didn't steal his apple, then the day will still be somewhat of a success.


End file.
